


Hospitality

by headbuttingbears



Category: Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
Genre: Drunkenness, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7148165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/headbuttingbears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You ever need another couch to crash on... look me up." | Llewyn catches a break for once and gets to enjoy more than a couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hospitality

**Author's Note:**

> While watching the movie with Jenny once, we had a very brief conversation ("so Llewyn totally exchanged sex with one of those randoms for a couch at least once, right? / totes"). This is _sort of_ that fic. This is also an experiment in how many super expensive real wines I can namesmush together. The answer: a few! I don't speak French.
> 
> Any historical whatevers are mine.
> 
> For Jenny, as always.

The Gorfeins are, as usual, better to him than he deserves. Llewyn knows he gives their little parties a strange kind of artistic legitimacy, an air of novelty, but they feed him and give him somewhere to sleep so he tries not to shit all over their hospitality when they egg him on to play the dancing monkey. Or singing monkey, as occasionally happens.

There's an odd number of non-couch-surfing guests this time. The married couple with matching haircuts wants to talk about a Freudian interpretation of Picasso's "Weeping Woman" over dessert. The single guy all in brown, seated next to them, locks eyes with Llewyn across the table and slowly removes his glasses to wipe them with his napkin in the subtlest display of disgust he's seen in a while. It deserves applause.

"You know, William's a widower," Lillian says by way of introduction, once dinner is done and it's time to mingle. Llewyn hates mingling but it's better than being trapped at the table, forced to listen to The Discourse. At least here he can always fake going to the bathroom and hide with Ulysses if it gets to be too much.

Eyebrows high, Llewyn turns to William, finds he has to look up a ways when he talks to him. He appeared deceptively shorter sitting down. "Wow. Sorry. About your wife." Waits until Lillian leaves to top up the Picasso-Freuds' glasses before he continues, "And sorry about Mrs. Gorfein. She's-"

" _Ex_ -wife," William interrupts, ignoring his apology. His glasses are round like his face, and he pushes them up the bridge of his nose with a finger as he snorts. "Lorna, not Lillian. And in more ways than one now, I guess."

Llewyn absorbs this along with a sip of his brandy, and for long moments they stand there not talking. He bobs his head to the music playing softly in the background, pretending not to notice how William eyes him. He gets that sometimes from the Gorfeins' friends, like he's an exhibit in a museum on loan from somewhere foreign. He's had enough morbid interest aimed at him to last a lifetime, he's not interested in more.

"So you're, what? Sleeping on their couch?" There's nothing morbid or easy to ignore about William's blunt curiosity, but his voice is low and inoffensive so Llewyn can't get too riled up about it.

Can't help wincing even so. "Just until I-"

Doesn't get a chance to finish. "You ever need another couch to crash on…" William darts a big paw into his jacket's inner pocket. "Look me up." Passes him a business card.

William Levinson, MA, PhD, Department of History. There's a phone number with an extension at the bottom, another shorter one scribbled on the back.

Smooth.

Llewyn flicks the card with his thumb, looks up at him through his eyelashes. "That's nice of you to offer."

"Not really." A smile quirks momentarily wider over his face before it shrinks again as he holds out his hand. "Bill."

Has to slip the card in his pocket before he can shake hands. "Llewyn."

 

Two weeks later and Llewyn's already worn out his welcome everywhere he can think of and then some in his usual painful fashion. He's huddling in a payphone booth with most of his worldly possessions, going through his pockets frantically for change when he finds a crumpled white business card and a dull quarter. The wind keeps sneaking in through the cracks in the booth, swirling snow around his ankles, and he remembers how William – Bill – Levinson had looked at him when he offered his couch.

Llewyn taps the card against the metal bulk of the phone for seconds, worrying his split lip, until he sighs, not even bothering to hope for the best. Picks up the receiver from the cradle, fumbles his last quarter into the slot with wind-chilled fingers. He can admit when he's in a tight spot, and does so when Bill picks up. "It would just be for the night, I don't-"

"Can you get across town alright?"

Llewyn frowns, holds the cold plastic receiver away from his face to rub his bruised cheek as he thinks and stops when it only hurts more. "Uh- Yeah, yeah. I _think_ I-"

"Do it before ten or the neighbors'll talk." Hangs up before Llewyn can say anything else. Like maybe thank him.

Boots it over, ends up standing in front of a nice-looking brownstone on a nice-looking street. Lotta bare-limbed trees that probably look nice in the spring. Scratches his neck and regrets it since it's fucking freezing and now it's all down the back of his coat, hustles up the steps and bangs on the door. Bill lets him in, closes the door behind him and it's… warm.

Really warm.

He's sure he didn't groan out loud at the pleasure of being out of the wind and the prospect of dry feet, but Bill's giving him a funny look. Llewyn ducks his head to brush the melting snow off his hair. His cheeks feel hot with embarrassment but the heat doesn't penetrate any deeper than skin; he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

"It's a pullout," Bill says, trudging up the stairs. He's taller than Llewyn remembers, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal hairy forearms that sway by his sides as he leads him to the study where the promised couch is. "Hope that's okay."

"That's great." Drops his stuff in the corner as soon as he enters the room, eyes only for the couch. He sits down on it immediately, only for Bill to wave him back up so he can pull it out into a very creaky bed. Sits back down on the edge of the bed and… yikes. Frankly it was more comfortable as a couch but. Whatever. Beggars and choosers. It's not a wooden bench in Penn Station. "Yeah, g-great." He started shivering at some point while waiting for the train, and it's given him a wretched stutter he's too worn out to fight off. "Th-thanks. Thanks a lot."

Bill stands directly before him, expectant expression making Llewyn swallow. Looks him over, looks at his belt buckle, all dull gleam in the fluorescent light. He's wearing cords. Llewyn worries his split lip with his teeth until it stings before he looks back up at Bill's face.

"I'll get you some blankets." Bill leaves him sitting there wondering what the fuck he's gotten himself into now. "Feel free to help yourself to a shower. Warm up."

 

Llewyn avails himself of the facilities for the plain fact that he doesn't know when he'll have another chance. The chill he's caught makes the decision easier. He turns the water up too hot and just stands there under the spray, leaning against the tiled wall and cooking himself for as long as he can handle. Only turns it down when he can feel his toes again and his skin's bright pink, like a ham, where it isn't green with bruises. Washes his hair with the available bar of white soap and when he gets out, towel wrapped around his hips, he finds his pile of clothes is gone. Didn't hear the door open when he was bathing. Discovers his bag, once he checks it, is empty of any and all clothing as well.

"What the fuck." Nearly slips on the top step thanks to his wet feet before clattering down them. When he finally locates Bill, he's in the kitchen carving up some leftover chicken on a cutting board. "Where're my clothes?"

"Threw 'em in the washer. Had a half-load myself and I figured- Do you mind?" Big knife in his hand, two plates on the counter. Bread. Sandwich fixings.

Llewyn takes in this picture and decides no, he doesn't mind. It's in his best interest to not mind. "No. That's nice of you. To do." Now that he bothers to listen, he can hear the machine running noisily somewhere in the house.

"Don't worry about it, I said I had a half-load." Bill returns to carving the chicken up with a level of efficiency Llewyn doesn't normally associate with history professors.

Llewyn drips on the floor, hand at his towel to hold it up. He's gotten a little thin over the last couple of months. Not eating right. Must be why he gets cold so quick, why he's positive he can smell the chicken even though it looks fresh out of the refrigerator. His stomach rumbles. "Can I-" licks his fat lip in case he was drooling. "Can I borrow some pants?"

"Right, right." Bill sets the knife down, wipes his hand on his pant leg and comes over, touches Llewyn's shoulder as he passes. "Don't want you catching your death now, huh?" Leads him back up the stairs to his bedroom, folds the long length of himself at the waist to pull a pair of sweatpants and a white undershirt from the dresser. Sets them on the bed so Llewyn has to go in to get them.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he says, stepping back and away.

Llewyn looks over his shoulder, sees him lingering in the hallway. Staring.

After a moment when Bill's eyes have traced down his shower-damp body: "Might be a bit long in the leg."

"That's okay," he says slowly. Hitches his towel up a little higher before pulling the shirt on, feeling Bill's eyes still on him. He's getting colder, wet towel heavy, but- Fuck it. Drops the towel to pull the sweatpants on, tries not to rush like he's freaked or anything. Kind of is. Turns around and Bill's gone. Goes to hang the towel up in the bathroom and hears the chopping in the kitchen resume. Pokes at his lip as he goes back downstairs.

 

The collar of his shirt is damp from his wet hair, curling fiercer than usual since he didn't dry it properly. But it's clean so he can't complain too much. Just like he can't complain about Bill watching him eat. He made the sandwich Llewyn is currently wolfing down, after all; his own sits towering and lonely, half-eaten and ignored in favor of the glass of wine Bill's holding. And it's his counter Llewyn's currently standing at, his plate he's holding. Llewyn is painfully aware of his status as an interloper, no matter how Bill smiles and smiles, glasses perched on the top of his head, full-moon lenses glinting above his tousled brown hair.

Llewyn licks his fingers when he's done, dabs a fingertip over the plate to get the extra salt when there's nothing else left. Stares at the remaining half on Bill's plate as he sets his empty one down with an unavoidable clatter. Thinks that was the best chicken sandwich he's had in his life.

Says so out loud and Bill says, "No, it wasn't. Mediocre at best."

"Better than mediocre." Really wants the rest of Bill's sandwich but he doesn't want to ask for anything else unless he really needs it. Doesn't want to use up all his good will.

Maybe if Llewyn looks at it hard enough, radiates enough longing, he'll give it to him.

"You want a drink?"

Looks up as Bill slides a glass over the counter to him, twin to the one he's been drinking out of, and starts to pour some wine before he can answer. Llewyn really just wants that sandwich, but wine'll do too. Doesn't pretend to be fancy, doesn't sniff it or sip or anything, just drinks some of it down. Not vinegar, that's all he can say about it.

"That is a 1872 Chateau Genevrieres you just chugged," Bill says, eyes crinkling in amusement in his round face.

Llewyn blinks. "I have no idea what that means."

"It's nine hundred dollars a bottle."

Blinks again. "Wow."

"Goes pretty good with chicken."

Llewyn takes another big swallow, smacks his lips, the bottom one scabbed over from when he'd gotten punched earlier, now throbbing weakly. "Not bad."

Bill smiles at him and eats the other half of his sandwich as Llewyn pours himself some more wine.

 

They finish the first bottle in the kitchen. It goes fast, but Llewyn figures that's what happens when you drink out of fishbowls.

"Want to listen to some music?" Bill doesn't wait for him to answer, just walks out, expecting Llewyn to follow. Points at the living room as he continues on down the hall: "You pick something, I'll pick something."

He nearly trips on the cuffs of the sweatpants, but he survives. Makes it into the living room, warm as the rest of the house. Brown leather couch, amber walls – kind of like being in a giant honeycomb. There's a stack of records next to a player; he thumbs through them, finds a lot of grim Russian classical and nothing he's feeling. Mussorgsky, Prokofiev, _Rite of Spring_ with some particularly lurid cover art. Considers the shelves and pulls something at random. Thelonius Monk. Better. Davis, Blakey, and his opinion of William Levinson, MA, PhD, rises but Llewyn's jazzed out until he finds Trane's _Favorite Things_.

Bill's got a crooked smile on his face when he reappears, bearing a fresh bottle, empty wineglasses pinched by the stems between his knuckles. The music hits his ears and his smile vanishes, replaced by a somber look until Coltrane goes into another dizzying chord progression on the sax. He snorts. "Fitting."

Being the houseguest, it's expected of him to ask. So he does. "Fitting how?"

Bill joins him on the couch, passes him the glasses so he can open the bottle. "We're already drinking Lorna's wine, why not listen to her music, too?"

Watches Bill pour and he can't tell which glass is his. Not that it really matters – ultimately neither belong to him. "Your ex, right?"

"My former ex," Bill corrects, setting the bottle down on the rug between his feet and taking the half-full glass Llewyn holds out to him. The servings are getting larger. " _Formerly_ of this mortal coil. We didn't get remarried."

"But you got her wine," he says, not quite asking before he drinks the subject at hand. It's a lot like the first bottle: red.

"Inherited. Sixty-three bottles of it," Bill says, swirling the wine slowly around in his glass like a pro. "Of course _I_ bought it, but she got it all in the divorce. And then she died and I got it back. Guess that makes me the winner of this little back-and-forth." He gulps half of it like it's grape juice before he looks at Llewyn, smile wider as if he really did win something. "1901 Nuits-Saint-Georges. Nine hundred sixty four dollars." Sniffs it. "And thirteen cents."

Llewyn peers down into his glass at his wavering reflection. He's got three bucks in singles in his wallet and almost a grand's worth of wine in his belly. Unreal.

The crisp _ting_ of glass meeting glass startles him; Bill sits back on the couch, closer than before after clinking his glass to Llewyn's, and drains what's left in his glass. "Drink up. Still got sixty-one bottles to go."

If he really was a Commie, would he be excited or disturbed by this? "Isn't this the kind of stuff you, I dunno, save? Resell?"

"Why?" Bill smiles a lot but it's always crooked, like he only got half the instructions necessary to operate the emotive mechanics of his face. He does it now as he pours himself another glassful, looking at Llewyn like he's said something certifiable. "It's sixty years old. Hasn't it been passed around enough?"

Put that way… Llewyn drinks another third, wishing more than ever he'd had more to eat. Ignores how Bill watches him swallow it down.

 

"So that makes…" He scrunches up his nose, thinking, squeezing Bill's shoulder hard through his shirt like that'll make the mental math easier. One and one and one and one-

"Fifty-eight," Bill says before he can get it all added up. "Fifty-eight left. Excellent job. And I believe this is your stop, Mr. Davis."

Llewyn knocks his wrist against the doorjamb with a bang as they turn in to the study, going sideways so they both fit. "Damn," he hisses, looking at first his throbbing wrist and then the traitorous house. He's equally unprepared for Bill to drop his arm and push him towards the bed. Couch. Pullout couch. The springs scream when he lands heavily on it. His brain is back in the hallway, not caught up to the rest of him as he lies there and stares up at the dark silhouette of Bill standing over him, hands at his sides.

"I'd tip you but I left my wallet in my other pants," Llewyn says before licking his lip, sucking it when he tastes the tang of blood. Forms some of the names he heard tonight but his tongue is clumsy in his mouth, his French far less practiced than Bill's. When he said them they sounded natural, polished. _Chambertin Grand_ … something. That was the last one they drank, a fruity red. Chambertin. He whispers it to himself like a lullaby.

Bill's still standing before him when Llewyn opens his eyes again after what feels like hours. The light's off in the hallway now but he can make out the towering mass of him before he folds down like an accordion at the side of the bed, repeating his trick from earlier.

Llewyn props himself up on his elbows, head feeling thick as an oversaturated sponge, phantom saxophone dribbling its wine-soaked way out his ears as Bill pushes his knees apart to kneel between them. Squints at him as he drags the waistband of borrowed sweatpants down determinedly, pulling Llewyn further forward towards the edge of the bed in the process, bare feet brushing the floor.

"Am I awake?" He trusts this shadow Bill to tell him the truth. They listened to music together. That was like… bonding. A bonding experience. You can't dig a bunch of records with a guy and not connect. He scratches fingers through his still-damp hair as Bill lets his loose sweats drop past his knees.

"Eh," Bill says, hands high up on Llewyn's thighs as he leans over him to lick a wet trail up his soft cock.

Llewyn sighs, slouches, elbows digging into the thin mattress so the springs bite at him, already uncomfortable. But he doesn't move, just lies there as Bill wraps a hand around his cock and pumps it, too slow but he sucks the head and that's alright. Better than alright. Nice. More bonding. All the blood in his body remembers at the same time it's supposed to be moving around and marches south as Bill's tongue rubs back and forth against the underside of the head.

"Ah." Llewyn rocks his hips up, or tries to – only manages the weakest movement, Bill's hand holding him down. His thumb stabs into his body, hard into the flesh along the inside of his hipbone. Thinks it should hurt but it doesn't, but it discourages further aggressive movement as Bill continues to work at him. Llewyn grabs at the afghan beneath him instead when Bill starts to jerk him a little more insistently. Hooks his fingers through loops of wool as Bill takes more of his stiff cock into his mouth.

He blinks hard, squints some more like _he's_ the one who needs glasses, but his wine-blurred vision doesn't get any better, not even when his mouth drops open on a shaky exhalation at the way Bill's lips drag over his dick. Thinks this blowjob might be like that sandwich: seems better than it really is only because he hasn't had one in so long. Might just be decent. Mediocre. Feels way better than mediocre when Bill drops his hand from his cock to his balls, rubs them methodically as he sucks harder, the barely perceptible outline of his bobbing head moving faster over him.

Llewyn groans, a frail noise over the deafening creak of the springs as he shifts and squirms. His feet slide over the hardwood floor, into the soft jersey of the sweatpants pooled around his ankles, and his toes curl when his cockhead slides against the uneven roof of Bill's mouth. Bill crowds closer, broad body forcing his legs further apart. The inside of Llewyn's thighs makes ticklish contact with the bare skin of Bill's sides, and he's too busy moaning to laugh as Bill noisily licks the underside of his cock, air cold against the spit-slick length.

"Fuck," he mutters, fists full of afghan, shoulders tight and arms aching as Bill holds his legs down with his elbows as he sucks. " _Fuck_." Groans the word when Bill takes him deep in his mouth and releases his balls to push a finger between his asscheeks, against his hole. His knees spasm inwards, against the trunk of Bill's body, when the tip of a finger pushes in. He comes with a choked shout of surprise, unprepared, arching up on his elbows and straining, clenching tight around the fingertip that's breeched his body.

Collapses back slowly afterwards, feeling dizzy, arms tingling; all he can do is pant as the hand at his hip pushes up under his shirt to skate over his heaving stomach and chest. The finger's gone; Bill holds his cock in a loose grip as he laps at the sticky head. Llewyn drapes an arm over his eyes and gasps, seeing white sparkles on the insides of his eyelids as his hips jerk up when the tip of Bill's tongue traces the slit.

"Oh Christ, stop," Llewyn says thickly, feeling scraped out by how the edge of Bill's thumb rubs tiny strokes just beneath the crown. "Stop already." He grabs at the hand under his t-shirt, tries to pull away. Freezes when Bill's grip tightens around his sensitive cock, fear punching him in the gut and leaving him nauseous when Bill gives it a tug.

Bill chuckles at his whimper but lets him go; the hand resting heavy on his stomach vanishes, and Llewyn barely has the energy to sigh in relief as Bill moves away. Fabric brushes against his calves, knees; lifting his hips makes him feel like Atlas but he manages to do his part, and Bill gets the waistband of his sweats back up where it belongs.

"You awake?"

Llewyn shakes his head slowly, eyes once again closed, the rough scrape of his hair against the sheet loud in his ears.

"Good." The pat of Bill's hand on his cheek is quieter, and he doesn't hear it at all when the afghan is folded over him.

 

Something is stabbing into his side; he shifts over, curls around it. Wakes up immediately after, facing the pillow lying before him. He's worked his way up, into the middle of the bed, the afghan pulled tight around his upper body. His feet are freezing, sticking out bare over the edge of the mattress. Draws his legs up, tries to use his feet to push the too-long pant legs down and gives up. He's used to cold feet. Better to pull the blanket over his head and ignore the daylight filtering in from the hallway, the small window somewhere behind him.

The scent of coffee and his full bladder prove impossible to ignore. He trips over the cuffs again, almost bangs his head into the wall and, though he thinks it might've done his headache some good, he braces himself against that same wall to finally roll the sweats up a crucial few inches, feeling like a child. Nothing childish about his hangover; his squint feels permanent as he stands in the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror of the medicine cabinet as he pisses away ten grand's worth of wine. The swelling's gone down on his split lip, and the bruise on his cheek is more yellow and green than red. He'll probably live. Unfortunately.

Uses a bit of Bill's toothpaste and his finger as a makeshift toothbrush, rubs over molars that feel like they've grown fur in the night. His toothbrush is in his bag but going backwards seems impossible, just like the stairs do until he gets another whiff of fresh coffee and he risks it, head throbbing so badly he regrets rolling the pant legs up. Wasted opportunity to trip and fall down the stairs, die in this aggressively nice townhouse. Finally put out of his misery.

Bill's drinking out of a mug at least as large as one of his wineglasses when Llewyn reaches him in the kitchen. He's fully dressed, suit and tie, making Llewyn feel shabbier than usual. "Morning."

Llewyn grunts, rubs his upper arm under his sleeve as an alternative to staring. Bill looks like a professional. Distinguished in his tweed, brown hair neatly combed, with his Hudson University mug and his Tuesday edition of the _New York Times_ open on the counter.

"Did you suck me off last night?" Llewyn meant to ask if he could have some of his coffee but that comes out instead. Sometimes his mouth surprises even him with its sudden hostility. He blames how not miserable Bill looks for provoking it. Fuck him.

Bill lowers his mug, glasses sliding down his nose as he peers at something in the paper before he turns the page. "No?"

Llewyn's squint intensifies. His eyes hurt. He hasn't overdone it so much his fucking eyeballs hurt in… months. At least six months. Back when he could afford to drink enough to manage it. "So what, I dreamt you… doing whatever it is you did to me?"

"You had a lot to drink." Bill, eyes fixed on the financial section, slurps his coffee. If it wasn't for the muscle memory that sends a shiver through Llewyn at the sound he'd almost believe the guy when he says, in a very firm tone: "I helped you to bed. You passed out."

Llewyn screws the heels of his palms into his eyes. It doesn't make a difference – Bill's still there, drinking coffee and not looking at him. His ears are pink where his wavy hair doesn't cover them. "Why'd you get divorced? Your wife find out you're queer?"

That gets his attention. Bill uncrosses his legs and straightens up from his slouch against the counter to look at him. He's definitely tall. More than that, he gives the _impression_ of tallness, the way bears at the zoo do when they stand up and remind you they're not pets. His pullout couch bed sucks but it's warm and, for all that he's apparently a queer, he's been really nice to him despite – including – the midnight blowjob. Plus he looks like if he decided to smack Llewyn around it would hurt.

If Llewyn were half as good at selling records as he is at making trouble for himself he wouldn't be in this position.

"I got divorced because I found out she was running around on me," Bill says amiably, pushing his glasses back up his nose instead of eighty-sixing him. Says it the same way he'd said _formerly of this mortal coil_. Who talks like that? "A man has to have _some_ pride."

Llewyn barks a laugh, scratches at his bearded chin. "Yeah, alright. I'll take your word for it." Figures he's made about as much of an ass of himself as possible and with nothing left to lose, he points at Bill's mug, sitting forgotten on the newspaper. "Can I have some of that or…"

It's Bill's turn to narrow his eyes, but then that smile reappears. The small one from the Gorfeins' dinner, and Llewyn scratches his ankle with his toe as Bill's eyes travel down and then back up his body. "Sure you can." Turns to open a cupboard and get a second mug.

"Fantastic," he mutters. Even if Llewyn can't make out the shape of them yet, the strings attached are audible. He knows this chord. "Thanks."


End file.
